Truth, Justice, and Equality
by DandelionFunky
Summary: If you asked Murphy and Connor why the world went to shit, they'd tell you it was a punishment from God for the paint job given to Hoag.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello~! Just want to let you know that this is an amalgam of Boondock Saints, the Telltale Game series and the Television show of "The Walking Dead." Thanks! ~DandelionFunky_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints, or Any of the Walking Dead franchises and media.  
_

_Only this fic belongs to me. ~DandelionFunky_

* * *

**Chapter One**

If you asked Murphy and Connor why the world went to shit, they'd tell you it was a punishment from God for the paint job given to Hoag.

Not that it was the painter's fault he was hired to paint the place gay-as-fuck sea foam green.

Connor and Murphy sat together in the mess hall, the only place so far that remained un-cursed by that blasted color. Gray, gray, gray everywhere. Gray tables, gray chairs, gray walls. The floor was concrete so, of course, _gray. _The hue was better, but not by much.

"It'll make them _calm_," Connor sneered in a whiny voice, mimicking the warden as he ate a brown mash of _something. _Probably chicken from the taste of the slop.

"More like _drop tha soap_," Murphy sneered back, snorting.

Some of the chicken_…vittles_…getting lodged in his nasal cavity in the process.

As Connor patted Murphy on the back, his eyes crinkled at the view through the barred window of the poor fellow sullenly painting the outside wall in slow, melancholy strokes; his obviously six foot stature slumped over in anguish.

Smirking, Conn shook his head. "Somebody should just put tha fucker out a 'is misery."

Murphy glanced toward the window in between hacks. He scoffed, which resulted in a strange hiccup-hack.

"S' fuckin' retarded. With _what_? A spatula n' tha family prayer?" Murphy wheezed, laughing and choking on the mash further.

"Shut up, m' not _fuckin' retarded._"

Connor gave Murphy an extra powerful smack, dislodging the muck from Murphy's throat.

Several things happened at once.

The mash shot out of Murphy's mouth, hitting "Saws" Louinski, which you can tell by the name that's not exactly someone who you want to be friends or fuckbuddies with, and especially not someone who you want to nail in the back of the head with something that's covered in your saliva and looks like shit.

"What tha _Fuck_!" Murphy rubbed his back with his left hand and punched Connor with the other, placing a blow to the exact same spot on Connor's back that he had placed on Murphy.

"I 'elped ye, ye ass'ole!" Connor returned the favor, punching Murphy on the left shoulder where it was unblocked.

Saws decided to join the party, obviously ungrateful of the gift given to him by two loving brothers. Before long, there was a full blown riot in the mess hall. Food throwing, punching, noogies, and somehow in the brouhaha the warden got a wedgie.

Needless to say, Connor and Murphy were put to blame.

Which led to them being placed in isolation in their cell for three days.

Which led to Connor having a cold.

Which led to Connor charming the female attendants for soup.

"Fuckin' pussy," Murphy glowered, jabbing Connor in the arm as female-admirer-obviously-not-doing-her-job-number- four slid a bowl of chicken noodle soup, filled to the brim, obviously homemade, and steaming; on the floor through the bars to their cell.

"I'll get the bowl when you're done." She winked and walked away from the cell.

"Who are ye callin' a pussy? Yer the one that sweet-talked number two inta gettin' more fuckin' blankets." Connor hissed, small puffs of steam coming out in his breaths.

Lately there was a particularly cold spell blowing over the Boston Area, bringing the temperature down farther than the usual forty degree weather of April.

Murphy walked over and picked up the bowl of soup, handing it to Connor with a scowl and a raised eyebrow.

"We're both wrapped up in those blankets, though."

Connor hiked up his blankets from his position on the bed, scooting them from his shoulders to his ears.

"…Fuckin' Shut it."

He reached his left hand out of the blanket, accepting the bowl from Murphy. The twins eyed the bowl. There was no spoon. With a snort from Murph and a blank look from Conn, Connor began to sip from the side of the bowl.

* * *

**Twenty Four Hours Later**

Eunice fiddled with the radio as Smecker nonchalantly stared at the meandering corpses down below on the streets. Duffy and Dolly standing to the side, studying the two "special agents" while smoking a cigarette. Who knows when they'll be able to get their hands on another one.

Currently the four of them were lounging on the rooftop of an apartment complex in South Boston. The twin's apartment complex, to be precise.

Static resonated, fuzzing and cracking as Eunice adjusted the dial. Smecker turned his face in her direction, the expression on his face remaining no different than the impassive glance he was giving the undead below.

"Do me a favor and keep it down, Betty? I don't want to attract any more 'friends' than we already have today."

Eunice pursed her lips and scowled, ignoring the special agent as she adjusted the dial once again.

"Current Outbreak Status: New York catastrophe, level ten; Los Angeles catastrophe, level ten; San Francisco Catastrophe, level ten; Boston-"

All eyes were focused, full attention given to the small radio. Duffy and Dolly's eyes glimmering with Is-there-hope-at-the-bottom-of-this-Pandora-box, taking a deep whiff of their cigarettes tentatively.

"Catastrophe level ten."

The radio continued on about Atlanta being the safest area in the United States. Atlanta was nineteen hours away, if you had a car with enough gas to take the whole trip. Dolly and Duffy exhaled a tragic puff. The Myth Lied. Pandora's box had an elephant dick up the ass at the bottom of it.

Smecker nodded, unsurprised at the news.

"Well then, time to get the Saints out of prison."

"Shouldn't we be focused on our _lives not getting fucked_?" Dolly replied.

"If anyone could help us survive, it's them." Duffy attempted to take a casual drag of his cigarette, but the trepidation that glimmered in his eyes revealed his nonchalance to be a farce.

Eunice squinted at Smecker. "You just expect us to be able to walk in, grab the boys, an' walk out? No lawbreakin', an' no cops flippin' _the fuck_ out?"

Smecker raised an eyebrow.

"Don't know whether you noticed, Betty Boop."

He waved a hand toward an old man devouring a chihuahua from a purse that had been discarded on the street.

"This is the apocalypse. No laws, no cops. I could piss in your ear, murder you with a toothpick and shove you off this roof and no one would give a _fuck."_

Dolly glanced down at the pink-purse-dog-eating-dead-man. "He would."


	2. Chapter 2

_I do not own any of "The Walking Dead" or "Boondock Saints" media, merchandise, or any of its characters. _

_Only this fic is mine. ~ DandelionFunky_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Oh the Warden had a jail,

**E**I**E**I_O_,

And in that jail he had undead,

**E**I**E**I_O_.

With a-

_bang bang_

here

and a-

_bang bang_

there.

Here a-

_bang_

there a-

_bang_

Everywhere a-

_bang_**_ bang._**

Oh the Warden had a jail,

**E**I**E**I_O_!

Eunice, Smecker, and Dolly carved through the prison, firing their handguns through the hordes of the now undead staff. The prisoners -most of them- were intelligent enough to stay away from the cell bars, leaving them unharmed.

Not that the prisoners were going to be let out anytime soon. Even if possibly the detectives _did_ have the keys, which they _don't._

Duffy was commandeered to stay at the apartment in case the twins showed up, being the lucky-miracle-fuckers that they are.

"The new paint job was looking kind of nice, shame it's never going to be finished."

Smecker fired his pistol, headshotting a female corpse-still somehow carrying a spoon- that had gotten a bit too close for his liking.

Eunice eyed him and the wall blankly. She pulled the trigger on the nearest corpse, but her gun clicked; empty.

Before it could grab her, Dolly butted into the right shoulder of the shambler with his elbow.

It bumbled back from the impact, giving Eunice enough time to dive for the spoon and jab the handle into the eye of the offending corpse, permanently downing it.

Dolly rubbed his arm. "Does anyone know where the fuck their cell _is_?"

"Cell Block A."

"B," Smecker tossed a clip to her as he corrected her.

Eunice loaded the clip and scowled. "How 'bout I go to cell A, an' you go to cell B, and we'll see who _the_ _fuck_ is right?"

She turned on her heel, firing headshots at the corpses she passed on her way to Block A. Smecker paused for a moment, offhandedly headshotting another too-close-for-comfort-buddy-thank-you as he stared at her like the moron she was.

Smecker and Dolly followed close behind her.

* * *

In Cell Block A, the doors two of the cells were open. One to the right, the other on the far left wall, over by the door farthest from the entry the three detectives came in.

In front of the cell on the right, there was a corpse lying on its right side, once male, but now its stomach ripped open along with part of his pelvis. Half of its legs were eaten, femur bones laid bare on the concrete. Its head bashed open, tarnished copper blood oozing underneath it.

Cell block A had about thirteen cells, and all thirteen of the prisoners in this cell block were dead, snarling though the bars at the three detectives.

Three female walkers paraded the room, a fourth walker lapping up blood on the floor in the open cell to the right.

Eunice took out the three females, while Smecker did the same to the one in the cell.

Smecker examined the half-eaten corpse on the floor.

"Sing."

"_What_?" Dolly closed the door they entered the cell block in. Effectively shutting out more undead from entering the premises. He rubbed his arm.

"Sing."

Smecker's eyes darted to the arm Dolly was rubbing, but he made no comment.

"Or hum. _'La Boheme: Si, Mi chiamano Mimi'_, if you please."

"I'd rather get you a bagel," Dolly deadpanned.

Smecker shrugged, "Close enough."

Eunice rolled her eyes and blew upward toward her still raven bangs. She examined the cell.

"Judgin' from the shape a' the blunt trauma, the victim was killed by-"

"A bowl?" Smecker gestured to a pile of noodles on the floor, next to the puddle of blood.

"…Yes." Eunice sucked her cheeks in.

"Shouldn't we be figuring out whether this is actually the Saints' cell?"

"It fucking is alright."

"How the _fuck_ do _you_ know that?"

Smecker raised an eyebrow. "Doubting yourself, Betty?"

She mentally reminded herself to bite her tongue next time.

Smecker pointed down at a finger with the words _TAS _tattooed on it.

"We're fucked. One of them's dead. We're all fucked." Dolly ran a hand through his blonde hair as he paced.

Eunice didn't bother to look at him as she spoke. "Shut the fuck up, Dolly."

Smecker's brow furrowed, and he hunched over the body.

"He's lying on his intestines."

"Meaning?" Dolly said.

"Meaning he wasn't on his side when he died. The first time."

"N' his belt is undone _behind_ him."

Smecker began to remove the shirt off the corpse. Eunice rolled her eyes, and Dolly recoiled from the intestines wriggling around the shirt as it was slid across its body.

Vertical lacerations marked the shoulders and aft of the torso.

"Looks like this unlucky fucker died right here. Pinned against the bars as he was chowed on."

"N' the twins were _lucky fuckers_." She pointed to the belt, partially pulled off.

"He musta had the keys."

Dolly paced into the adjacent open cell. He pointed to a pillow inside the cell, littered with wavy strands of black hair.

"Romeo's a lucky fucker, too."

Eunice loaded her gun. "Let's hope they stay that way."

Smecker placed a hand on the neck of the corpse.

"Still warm. They shouldn't be too far ahead."

He clicked the safety off his gun.

"Let's go."

* * *

**Four Hours Earlier**

Connor spat out the mouthful of broth, its contents spewing back into the metal bowl, when the screams and the pop-pop of guns filled the atmosphere. The sounds tinging the air with copper and _red._

"What tha_ fuck_ **_is_** that?" Connor asked, disconcerted.

Mobsters were one thing. It was quite another if there were innocent folks getting slaughtered. And he seriously doubted there were an army of gangsters having a gun-picnic outside. He could see it now:

"_Excuse me, Mister Yakavetta. Would you please pass me the AK-47?" _

"_Why yes, Mister Federal Officer. But only if you so kindly hand me that grenade."_

"Sounds like a fuckin' warzone out there." Murphy poked his head outside of the metal beams, concernedly staring out into the hallway.

Connor bitchfaced. "Like anythin's goin' ta be out there, fucktard. Shit's _outside._"

Murphy glared back, "M' _**not**__ a __**fucktard**_**.**"

Murphy returned his eyes to the hall, and they widened. He frantically gestured for Connor, beckoning him. Connor toured over. Still mummified in the blankets, he wrapped his fingers around the bars of the cell.

The warden was running down the hallway toward them. Away from admirers one, two, and three.

"Do ye think they're cheating on us?" Connor laughed, Murphy joining him.

Their laughs were hushed when the admirers pinned the warden against the bars of their enclosure. The twins had scarcely removed themselves, stepping several feet backwards. Had they not retracted their fingers at that exact contingency, his back would've slammed against their hands.

The admirer's hands grasped at his neck, at his shoulders, at his clothes. Mandibles bored into his stomach. He howled, sliding down the billets and clawing at his attackers in agony.

He became still.

He was dead.

Yet the women wouldn't stop eating. They ripped out his intestines with their teeth. The tendons of his legs pulled away from the bones. His blood and flesh dribbled from their jaws and onto the fabric of their clothes. Pieces of flesh hooking themselves on the buttons of one of the admirer's shirts, where it wiggled from every slurp and grasp for more meat.

"_Christ"_

Connor emptied the contents of his stomach.

Number two looked up from her meal.

The twins froze.

She scanned the cell, but when she found nothing moving, she ignored their smell of life for the tasty man below her. He was alive enough. Even if she did have to share. Oh well.

A scream rang from down the hall. Oh hey. She wouldn't have to share if she got that. She slowly rose, and shambled through the hall to the other cellblock. Where she had heard and now smelled the flesh.

Fuck, the two bitches were following her.

_Fuck yes, the two girls are followin' 'er,_ Conn thought.

"Murph, this guy's got tha keys."

"Fuckin' retarded. Ye want ta leave _now_?"

"Why not now? Chaos is tha perfect time ta get away. That's why tha bad guys always make a bomb with a timer in case they start losin'."

"So we're tha villains now?"

Connor bent over, tugging at the belt of the warden. Fortuitously, when the women tore through the warden's torso, they also gnawed through his belt to feast on his abdomen.

"Shut up n' 'elp meh get this fuckin' thing loose."

The Warden twitched.

"Alright, alright. I'll fuckin' 'elp ye."

"No wait-"

"Yer fuckin' blankets are gettin' in yer way."

Time slowed down.

Murphy.

Curling his left hand around one of the bars.

_Murphy. _

Reaching around the warden's waist with his right.

Murphy.

Grasping the keys.

_Murphy. _

The warden coming alive.

_**Murphy. **_

His teeth sinking into Murphy's hand.

* * *

_Thanks for reading~! More in a bit. Stay tuned~! ~DandelionFunky_


	3. Chapter 3

_I do not own the Boondock Saints, The Walking Dead, or any of its franchises and media. The only thing I own is this fic._

_Also if you don't get the references, I have them explained on the bottom after the chapter. ~DandelionFunky_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The warden may have bitten Murphy, but it was Connor who shrieked.

What the fuck was that? The warden turned his head toward the scream. Nevermind. Fuck that pussy. The warden wants the pretty one.

The "_**Shooot Heeerrr**_!" scene from Jurassic Park played in Connor's mind, remastered in high definition. Guest starring Murphy MacManus.

_Fuck __**that**_**.** The last thing Connor wanted was to see Murphy dragged through the bars, gnawed on like some fucking Pocky stick.

In violent desperation, Connor placed his body between the bars and his brother. Depositing his hands on Murphy's sternum, Connor synchronously shoved Murphy back and harshly kicked out at the warden through the bars with the balls of his left foot.

Murphy fell backwards, the momentum pulling the belt away from the Warden. The belt hit the bars, relinquishing its hold on the keys as Murphy descended away from it. As he hit his head on the pisspot, he saw stars for a moment and accidentally bit down on hard on his tongue. He tasted copper.

The warden fell on its side, growling. This floor doesn't taste like food.

Okay. The warden's eating the pussy _first._

Murphy placed the keys on the ground next to the pisspot, rubbing his head and grunting as he sat up.

Blood dribbled onto his face, droplets of the red liquid dribbling onto his cheek and forehead. Murphy stared blankly at his hand, stunned. The tip of his index finger was completely absent. The imprints of teeth marred the edges of where his fingernail had once been.

Several undead had been attracted to Connor's scream and now to the smell of Murphy's blood. They now hovered, hands sticking through the bars, grasping out at the twins.

Some of the carcasses only had bites on their arms, or small chunks of meat missing on their torso and legs. Places that wouldn't be fatal. Yet here they were, raving through the bars like people rearing for a sadistic tickle fight.

The twins paled.

You only have to be _bitten_ first.

Fucking retarded. Murphy scowled at his hand.

_I 'ave been bitten __**on tha **_**finger**_. __**That's **__how m' goin' ta die. _

Panic set in.

There'd be no way in two earths and an apple pie combo that Connor would recover from his death quick enough to kill him once he came back for round two. He'd at the very least get bitten first in the process. Or worse. Connor would _let _himself die.

Connor's eyes were steely; glaring at Murphy's hand like it was the devil himself.

No.

No no.

_**No. **_

"Murphy."

Murphy looked up from his hand.

"…Remember in _'True Grit'_ 'ow Mattie got bit by that rattlesnake?"

"…Aye."

Connor continued, "An' they saved 'er life by cuttin' off the area of tha bite?"

Murphy grinned despite himself, "Are we talkin' tha John Wayne version or tha remake?"

"John fuckin' Wayne a' course."

"Would tha' even work?"

Connor scowled and waved his finger, "Just _listen ta me_!"

Connor hissed, his finger shaking like an old gramma. "I don't think we 'ave much time. We got ta get tha rest of yer finger off, an' we got ta do it _now!_"

"With _what_?"

Good question.

They darted their eyes around the room, gaining a personal vendetta for each and every item that failed to be useful.

Bedpost? Motherfucker.

Soup Bowl? Motherfucker.

Blankets? Motherfucker.

Pisspot? Motherfucker.

Warden? Oh Motherfucking _bastard._

Conn blinked. The warden _bit _Murphy's finger off.

Well he had teeth too.

And from all the soup he definitely didn't have any cuts in his mouth.

Murphy's thought processes clicked, aligning themselves with Connor's.

"This is fuckin' gay, Conn."

But not as gay as eating him alive like he was a Christmas dinner. Murphy was low enough to the ground one of the first things undead Murphy would be able to get his teeth on would be Connor's balls.

_Definitely_ not as gay as the situation could be.

* * *

Like all proper pornos, Murphy put his finger in Connor's mouth. Unlike good pornos, however, there would be no pizza, no teachers, and no plumbers asking for payment.

And no sex. Sorry ladies. Or men. The twins don't judge your life choices.

Murphy's knuckles were perched in the area outside of Connor's teeth, puffing his left cheek out. The base of Murphy's finger rested on Connor's left –back molars. To prevent blood from splurging down Connor's neck, Murphy curled his finger into a J formation, the pre-bitten part pointing back toward the opening of his mouth.

_Christ_ this is closer than Murphy _ever_ wanted to be to Connor's mouth.

"Ar ye reeadddy?" Connor garbled around Murphy's finger.

Murphy donned a shit-eating grin and said wryly, "We're not at tha McCallister's yet."

"Shuttha huck up yer hinger tastes huckin' wheird."

Murphy took a deep breath. His eyes turned steely. "M' ready."

Connor bit down, and he bit down _hard. _Shaking his head a little, he disconnected the appendage from the rest of the hand. Murphy pulled his hand out instantly, swearing and sputtering curses in an effort to keep himself from biting his mouth from the pain again. Blood splurted onto the floor, next to the noodles Connor had barfed up beforehand.

Spitting the offending digit onto the floor, Connor swabbed his mouth out with a corner of one of the blankets, then rinsed his mouth out several times with the broth, spitting the liquid out each time and swabbing with a clean part of the blanket after each rinse. He continued this process until there wasn't any broth left in the bowl. He dumped the noodles on top of his vomit. He wasn't hungry anymore anyway.

There was a fucking rave party outside the cell door. And that rave party was apparently a huge fan of the Saints of Boston.

Not that they have a problem with loving fans. It's just these fans want to devour them whole and force them to join their cult of the humanitarian division.

If they wanted to eat people's heart and soul, they would've joined congress instead of kill mobsters.

The Twins also know how to package meat better than them. Wasteful fuckers.

And that party was blocking the keyhole. No amount of –put-your-right-hand-in-put-your-right-hand-out-do -the-hokey-pokey was going to keep yourself from reliving Murphy's "Charlie bit my finger moment."

_Mental note a' that. _ Connor took a club-like hold of the metal bowl, positioning his four digits on the inside, and his thumb on the outside.

Connor bellowed over the undead's retarded gurgling, "'Ey fellas! Murph n' I got the keys! Whoever makes tha most noise get's out!"

There was silence.

"N' Eunice's phone number!"

Suddenly all the prison mates in the cells went wild. They banged on the bars, they whistled.

"Hey fuckwad!"

"Dickfaces"

"Motherfuckers!"

"You remind me of my boyfriend!"

Silence again. Several of the prisoners tilted their heads out of the bars at that one prisoner.

A big deep voice of a burly man shouted back, offended, "HEY! You said I had eyes like the sea!"

A full on argument exploded between the couple. The rest of the prisoners began dangling their hands out into the hall, desperate to compete with the two shrieking like guests on Jerry Springer.

The undead quickly began to disperse from the twin's cell, latching themselves onto the other prisoners. Several, if not all, were bitten on the arms.

Connor took the opportunity to unlock the door with his left hand.

The warden, having not having enough lower appendages to move, remained leaning against the cell door.

Connor kicked the warden again, hurling the Warden to the right. He swung the door open, vengeance in both his eyes and in his hand.

Vengeance just so happened to be shaped like a metal bowl. Go figure.

Hey! The warden doesn't like your foot on his side; he wants you in his mouth. The warden snarled and hissed, grasping out with his fingers.

Why can't he get up? How do legs work? How do arms work? Oh shit. He should've read the instruction manual. Wait. He can't read.

He's hungry. He's Hungry and stupid. He's hungry and stupid and getting hit in the head with a metal bowl.

Fuck.

* * *

_True Grit references explained: _

_The reason why it matters whether it's the John Wayne version or the remake of "True Grit" is the amount of Mattie's arm that gets amputated. In the John Wayne version, Mattie only loses about a quarter/ half dollar size amount of flesh directly around the snake bite. Then she's fine. Well, give or take. Her arm- her entire arm- is in a splint at the end. So she can't have too much missing. _

_I haven't seen the remake, but I heard she loses half of her arm. _

_The McAllister's Store is where Mattie was taken to have said bite dealt with._

_Thanks for reading! Stay tuned! ~Dandelionfunky._


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey guys, feel free to review. I don't bite! Constructive criticism appreciated._

_I do not own Boondock Saints or the Walking Dead. The only thing I own is this fic. ~DandelionFunky_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Once again he slammed the bowl into that filthy corpse's fetid cranium.

And Again.

_Again. _

Vengeance glinted along the seams of the bowl, flashing in the dim light with every strike.

Justice is mighty, but Truth is a bitch.

And that bitch has a metal bowl with your name on it.

The keys slipped out of Connor's hands during his outburst, clattering loudly to the ground. Murphy danced around Connor's wide swings, his exertions creating a large obtuse with each wind-up.

Murphy stooped, picking up the keys and skittering over to the cell adjacent to the twins'.

Romeo was in that cell, facedown in his bed. He was sniffling.

"Are ye _cryin'_?"

"_No."_

Murphy fiddled with the keys against the keyhole, but it's amazing how much phantom finger sensations can mess up your grip. He dropped the keys.

As he bent over to pick up the keys, he glanced upward to find the dead staring _down._

At him.

Fuck.

Sneaky fuckers.

He slid the keys though the bars of Romeo's cell, kicking his legs out and rolling out of the way before Sneaky-Mc-dead-dead could land on him. Sneaky grabbed at his ankle, jaws clamping at the air. Murphy pulled away by pushing against the thumb, breaking the grip of Sneakers.

Rising quickly, Murphy jumped on the back of Sneaker's head with both feet. Grossest cannonball ever.

It was actually more of the retarded railroad-stick-dive things that the little bedwetters do at the local pool (otherwise known as Conn when they were five), but you get his drift. The dead were clambering through from the hallway, tongues waggling.

Staggering straight towards Murphy.

His _hand_.

They smelled the blood on his hand.

Fuck.

Fuck Fuck Fuck.

"Conn, we got 'ta ta get _tha fuck out of 'ere_!" Scrambling to the left, he slid using the blood drenching his feet to evade another undead's grabby fingers.

_Twang._

Hey Connor.

_Twang. _

Conn, little help here.

_**Twang. **_

What the _fuck_ are you _doing?!_

Connor's temple was covered with a sheen of sweat from his exertions. He was obviously attempting to tack the Warden's head to the ground. Except he didn't have a hammer or nails or tape or a stapler.

Murphy had yet to see someone capable enough to attach something to _concrete_ with any of those.

Well, except for that one time they taped Rocco to the side of their apartment, but technically that was brick and it's not like Connor's bashing the warden's brain in with ducttape. If he was Murphy'd be calling him retarded and telling him he was doing it incorrectly, instead of freaking the fuck out because Conn currently had on his I-must-throw–a-toilet-off-the-fifth-story-of-our-a partment-and-follow-its-trajectory-with-my-own-bod y crazyface.

Thank you for saving Murphy, but the warden's not getting up so now Connor's just being a dumbass.

Connor snapped out of his vindictive animus as Romeo fumbled with the keys, trying to get his cell open before the hall became too filled with the freaks for him to escape. The room was too full for Murphy and Connor to come out unscathed unless he got out.

Or unless they left without him. "Go! You gotta go, man! I'll meet you when I get out!"

Since Murphy was the one with nothing to lose, his hand attracting the dead like prime rib at a weight watchers meeting, he decided to be the one to make noise.

Turning his head back to Romeo, he called out,"Meet us at McGinty's!"

* * *

With Connor twanging a path and Murphy traveling adjacent to Connor's left shoulder, they decimated their way through the halls.

They eventually reached a standoff. There was a myriad of bloody mandibles, clawing hands, and crimson splatters. Screams filled the air, from whom remaining unknown to the twins. They darted into the hall to the right, the entourage closely behind.

The mess hall. Tables overturned, several undead treating themselves on corpses yet to reanimate.

With the dead behind them and the dead currently occupying their current domain, if they didn't find an escape route they would be eaten alive. Just like the corpses being binged on. There were just _too many._

The kitchenette had a door that led to the back alley of the prison, where the dumpsters were. As is the custom, the opening from mess hall to the kitchen was usually locked.

But on the concrete was a woman sprawled on the ground, her frigid hands retaining a vice like-grip on a silver spoon.

Admirer number four.

Her left foot was ensnared in the door that led to the kitchenette. The limb was twisted; ankle pointing upward, toes angled to the right, knee bent to the left. A tall undead was hunched over her carrion, cutting into her shoulders with its fingers before shoving it into its mouth.

It was the painter.

Lips drawn into a thin line, Connor threw the corpse off balance by bashing hitting it with a horizontal, semicircular motion; nailing the painter on the left side of its head. Its ear flying off due to the impact; undead crumbling to the ground. The painter snarled, grasping for them as it retained its composure.

Snarling, stupid composure. But still a focused individual in its own right.

For his efforts, the twins gave a round of applause as they quickly walked through the door.

The Painter demanded an encore. It lunged after them. It clawed Number Four's foot aside as it lurched hungrily through the aperture, clambering through the door before it shut with a _click._

The twins were occupied, taking out several undead. Murphy butting some from behind, knocking them on the ground where Connor bashed their brains in with the bowl.

The Painter hissed. He was hungry.

The woman tasted weird.

He likes men better. Fuck that sounded gay. That's not what he meant at all.

Murphy heard the hiss. Arcing to face the corpse, he weaved out of the way of the corpse by shimmying sideways. He hit the counter with his thigh.

Weapon. _Weapon._

Murphy raked his fingers across the counter, eagerly grabbing the first thing that reached his digits.

A wooden spatula.

Fuck.

The Painter getting uncomfortably near, Murphy swatted it away. It whacked its head on the opposing counter. The contact broke the painter's nose, along with a piece of the wood. The spatula having now been reformed into a possessing a sharp edge, he jabbed it into the neck of the painter.

Pulling the spatula out with a satisfied smirk, he muttered the family prayer.

Murphy chuckled, "'Ey Conn, I killed the painter with a _spatula_ n' tha _family prayer_."

Connor laughed, cackling jovially as he casually bashed a brain in.

A wooden spatula.

Fuckin' _awesome._

* * *

_Thanks for reading! More coming up._

_If someone would like to make a picture of Connor and Murphy wielding their respective weapons from this chapter in a battle stance; Conn with his bowl and Murph with his spatula, I'd probably use it as the cover for this fic.~ DandelionFunky_


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey~! Thanks for reading. Special Shoutout to SerenityWinchester from tumblr (or Jadesiren here) for being my beta for this chapter.  
_

_I do not own the "Walking Dead, "The Boondock Saints", or any of their respective media. The only thing I own is this fic. ~DandelionFunky  
_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Dolly squinted his eyes.

Eunice and Smecker's figures were blurry throughout the room, swirling in "C" shapes and hooks. Their mouths opened and closed, their words echoed and reverberated in and out of his ears, the puffs in their breaths mutating to appear like air bubbles.

Smecker's "Let's Go" had been an hour ago.

Directly after that statement Eunice and Smecker began an argument of shit-fuck-retarded proportions, and they were still going at it.

McGinty's or the apartments.

Apartments or McGinty's.

Fish. The Agents looked like fish.

The room refused to cease its turning.

It's fucking hot in here.

Smecker and Eunice are shivering.

But it's so fucking hot.

Are they sick?

Time is slow.

It's so hot.

Why are Dolly's breaths puffing in the air?

It's so hot.

So fucking hot.

Dolly removed his jacket, throwing the trench coat onto the ground and wiped his forehead with his right hand.

Dolly paled. Time crept slowly like molasses, as if dampened by the horror of his revelation.

_Dolly slammed his right elbow into the left shoulder of the corpse like linebacker. The impact snapped several muscles and the bones in the rigor-mortis infused corpse, allowing physics to affect the creature more so than a living being. The impact threw its neck forward, its face slamming into Dolly's forearm before it descended harshly downward onto the concrete. _

_As Eunice impaled the corpse with a spoon, Dolly examined and rubbed his arm through the sleeve of his trench coat._  
_No blood. _

_No blood means no bite. _

_Whew._

No.

No fucking way.

No _**fucking way.**_

_**Elephant dick up his ass. **_

On Dolly's forearm was a circular shaped bite that had barely cut through the skin.

But it was enough.

The two Agent Fishes looked at him, their alarm as evident on their faces as his own.

Heh. They were the ones looking like fish, yet it was Dolly's head that was swimming. As Dolly's face collided with the concrete, his last thought before the world went black was "Deep sea diving in Pandora's box. Hello elephant dick."

* * *

"Change of plans," Eunice said as she examined where Dolly lay facedown on the ground.

"You mean my plan," Smecker titled his head with a smirk.

"Shut the fuck up."

The dead were pounding on the door Dolly had previously shut. It clattered and clanked, it wasn't going to hold out for much longer. The door shook and clanked with sonorous maliciousness as it struggled against the lock and the doorframe.

The structure wasn't going to persevere much longer. Either the lock would break, or the door would be ripped from its hinges.

Smecker pulled on Dolly's trench coat and then threw him over his shoulder.

Eunice's eyebrows rose up to her hairline, before the left one dropped back to its face-base. Giving her a bemused appearance rather than one of astonishment.

Can't shoot for shit, but when he's not drunk he's stronger than he looks. Smecker fuckin' tops doesn't he?

His fairies can't get their way. Fuck no. Give the drinks and then fuck the dumb fucks, then dump the dumb fucks.

Poor fucks.

How to get out? There were two options. To the right, where they came from. Or to the left.

"Let's go that way." Eunice pointed to the left with her gun.

Smecker had no time to argue with her shit. That and her shit was correct.

"Cover me. I'm weighted down with stupid right now. "

Eunice cocked her gun with aggressive vigor. He's bitten. You don't fucking insult sick people. You sick bastard fairy.

"You got it."

Smecker raised an eyebrow at Eunice.

Don't give Smecker that fucking look. He has him over his shoulder, not Eunice, and he knew Dolly much longer than her. Cover him while he lugs Dolly's sorry ass over to the apartments. Dolly may have inherited the Bonehead crown, but he's not seeing Greenly in person just fucking yet.

They raced down the hall, shooting rounds off into the craniums of the undead.

_Pop. _

_Pop Pop_.

Hey. Nice Buttons. Are they tasty?

_Pop Pop __**whack **__pop!_

One lunged for Smecker's side by surprise, Smecker sidestepped, Dolly fwumping to the floor in the process. Smecker fired his pistol, the cranial liquid splattering over his button up flannel that peeked out of the trench coat.

Eunice fired off several rounds at the undead that were attracted to the noise of Dolly's impact with the ground and Smecker's gun.

Smecker hauled Dolly over his shoulder.

"Watch your fuckin' ass!" Eunice shouted over pops.

"That was supposed to be your job!" Smecker fired his gun.

Hey. No arguing from the pretty couple. Especially you fairy fucker.

Fairy has nice buttons, though.

_Bang. _

_Bang __**Bang.**_

Smecker knew he was slower than Eunice due to his extra burden, but this is ridiculous. Why were they all teetering toward _him? _

The sun shone through a window, giving his buttons a lavish luster. How lovely.

It was also a fucking dinner bell, blinking like a "fuck me" batman signal. Unfortunately it's not batman that'd be coming to fuck Smecker. It's about twenty undead fairy fucks that reek like a drag queen's gonorrhea.

Fucking brilliant.

Eunice shot the window several times. The glass shattering like jellybeans tumbling out of a paper bag.

Smecker beamed at Eunice.

Fucking _brilliant!_

Thankfully the window was devoid of bars ; Eunice and Smecker peered through the fresh opening for anything hungry outside.

Finding nothing, Smecker shoved Dolly through the window head first, cupping his hands on Dolly's ass as he pushed.

Dolly landed head-first, ass-up, knees pressed up against the wall, with a _thwump._

That might leave a mark.

Eunice followed, and Smecker after her.

Smecker may or may not have stepped on Dolly's ass and it may or may not have been an accident.

"Fuckin' come _on!_" Eunice tapped her foot and pursed her lips as Smecker lopped Dolly over his left shoulder instead of his right this time.

"I'm coming, Betty."

* * *

Duffy paced.

Fuck it.

They've been gone. The twins haven't shown up. There's no power. Which means there isn't any television. The radio has batteries, but there's nothing new on. Duffy would have to keep it down anyway. Last time the dead started banging on the door.

Duffy paused his rotations through the room. They know how to climb stairs?

_Mental Note. Not like the Daleks. _

The sudden mental image of those corpse-y freaks with jetpacks attached to the aft of their torsos made him cringe.

The door shook.

"Let us in! Let us in!"

_Bang Bang! _

"You still in there?"

Smecker!

Sonovabitch.

He threw the door open.

Smecker hobbled in, Eunice preceding. Dolly was dumped onto the floor and the door was slammed shut. Padlocks replaced into their prior positions.

Eunice scanned the room, "We need a sharp knife or a hacksaw. An' bandages."

"For _what_?" Duffy replied, stunned.

Duffy blanched.

**Bite mark. **

_**Bite. Mark.**_

_**O**_**h **_**shit.**_

Horrified, Duffy began the "Where's Waldo search for something doable for cutting off a limb" activity.

The dead had returned upstairs, and pounded on the door.

For Murphy and Connor being murderers, there really wasn't much to choose from.

_How did they __**live here**__?_ There aren't even any _fucking __**kitchen knives! **_

Ah. Here's something.

Fuck that's not anything.

This entire house and all that's in this _entire fucking place_ _is a fucking bowie knife?!_

_**Fuck!**_

As if on cue, the dead raged against padlock's prowess.

He doesn't want to do this to you Buddy. Duffy'll get you a beer and you can have his pack of smokes for this.

"We're going to have to break his arm first, 'cause this is all this place has."

Smecker placed Dolly between his legs, leaning Dolly's body against his. Smecker wrapped his arms around Dolly's by bringing his arms under Dolly's armpits and hooking upward.

Eunice grasped Dolly's forearm and bent it at a ninety degree angle. She took a deep breath and slammed it in the opposite direction of the same degree measurement. A loud crack resonated through the apartment and Dolly cried out in the midst of unconsciousness.

She effectively snapped the elbow joint in half.

The dead raved.

They had to hurry.

They eased Dolly onto his prior position on the floor. Grimly Duffy hacked away, making sure to position the knife in the gaps of fragmented bone.

Blood splattered onto his face and onto the floor.

This was not helping the door's situation any.

_Bang Bang Bang. _The Dead pounded on the door.

_Hack __**Slice. **_Duffy swiped in broad motions with the knife, a white-knuckled grip on the handle.

The Dead want that fucking Marinara sauce.

Wait. They sniffed more carefully. Blood type says Irish.

Fuck. They don't know any Irish Gravy. Irish Gravy good?

Dead want to fucking find out.

Now to remember how to open a door.

The dead aggressively slashed at the door whilst Duffy finished removing the limb. Duffy immediately took off his jacket and used it to staunch the bleeding.

"You two, go. You know where they'll be," Duffy applied a greater magnitude of compression on Dolly's arm, "I need to be here, with my friend. I'll stay here in case the twins show up."

Duffy smirked. "Besides, I'm covered in blood."

Gesturing to the kitchen with a nod of his head, Duffy said "There's more ammunition in the cupboards. It's the right type for your guns."

Smecker and Eunice nodded and acquired the ammunition prior cited.

"Take care of yourself." Eunice reloaded her gun.

"Bonehead, too." Smecker reloaded his gun.

"Go get 'em." Duffy grinned, "Fuckers."

They tied a long string to the lock on the door, the end of the string where Duffy could reach it from his position on the floor.

Giving Duffy a final nod, they exited through the door, breaching the gap; guns aflame.

McGinty's it is.

When the door shut, Duffy yanked down hard on the string, pulling the lock back down into position.

The knife lay by his thigh, the door locked.

Now the only thing left was to stop the bleeding.

And pray that the rest of them won't get an elephant dick up the ass.

'Cause fuck you Pandora.

* * *

_Stay tuned! _

_*Cackles* ~Dandelionfunky  
_


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